


Just This Once, A Happy Ending

by looktothestars



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (these tags aren't showing up in the right order and it's very annoying), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Canon Asexual Character, Canon-Typical Worms, Canon-atypical Softness, Canon-atypical happiness, Crush at First Sight, First Kiss, Happy Ending, Light Angst, M/M, Martin is a fan, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Season/Series 01, Sharing a Bed, The Mechs are Jon's college band, disaster gays both of them, jarchivist sims is jonny d'ville, kind of, martin has a crush on both of them because he doesn't know, romcom shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:02:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22740688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/looktothestars/pseuds/looktothestars
Summary: Martin had never been the type of person to listen to popular music. It made him feel ridiculously pretentious to say it, but it all felt so superficial. All those songs about love and sex and breakups felt so… detached. Emotionless even as the singer was supposedly pouring their heart out.He supposed this was part of the reason he liked poetry. Good poetry, where the feelings are so strong you can almost taste them, where you can hear the sounds pinned down by ink on the paper. Martin had been trying his hand at writing his own stuff recently, but it was never much good. It always felt so cliche.This is probably just a long way of saying that he liked a good story, and definitely a roundabout way of explaining why he enjoyed listening to the Mechanisms so much.(or to put it another way, Jarchivist Sims is Jonny D'Ville and Martin doesn't realise. Gay shenanigans occur. Now with Angst™)
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 283
Kudos: 1221





	1. October 21st, 2007

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey y'all, hope you enjoy this fic!  
> title is from "Justice" by the Mechanisms, from their album High Noon Over Camelot  
>   
> also just a disclaimer! the Mechs are a band that several of the voice actors from TMA are in. they are Not TMA canon and they are Not just jonny sims' band: there are 9 other (very talented) people that all contributed to their music. so check them out on Spotify if you haven't already!

Martin had never been the type of person to listen to popular music. It made him feel ridiculously pretentious to say it, but it all felt so superficial. All those songs about love and sex and breakups felt so… detached. Emotionless even as the singer was supposedly pouring their heart out.

He supposed this was part of the reason he liked poetry. _Good_ poetry, where the feelings are so strong you can almost taste them, where you can hear the sounds pinned down by ink on the paper. Martin had been trying his hand at writing his own stuff recently, but it was never much good. It always felt so cliche.

This is probably just a long way of saying that he liked a good story, and definitely a roundabout way of explaining why he enjoyed listening to the Mechanisms so much.

\-----

One of Martin’s friends had dragged him along that night. Erin had a habit of making him go to open mic nights with her, since the music there was normally the kind of weird stuff she liked, and Martin had a habit of going along with it “just this once”. He’d halfheartedly used his normal excuses: “not my thing”, “too loud”, “too many people” or even (as a last resort) “I’m too tall, I’ll get in the way”. As usual, it hadn’t helped.

There were a few bands playing tonight, but Erin was here for one in particular (the Mechanics, maybe? Martin wasn’t sure). She’d heard about it through a friend of a friend who’d seen a post on Facebook, so here they were. ‘Here’ being the upstairs room of their local pub, seeming barely big enough for both the equipment at the front and the few rows of chairs for the audience. He’d insisted on sitting at the back, close to the stairs in case he needed to leave. It was the right choice, he thought as Erin was immediately distracted by a friend. Martin was left sitting on his own, fidgeting with his fingers and checking his phone every couple of minutes as the room slowly filled. Finally, all the seats were taken. The keyboard and drum were brought out. The lights dimmed. A door he hadn’t noticed before opened, and suddenly Martin felt a little better about the next hour. 

The first person through the door was lanky, almost painfully so, but made up for it with a poofy white shirt and loose crimson trousers. His violet waistcoat was accentuated with gold buttons that matched the jewellery shining from his ears, neck and fingers. Emerald-lensed goggles sat atop loosely braided hair. As this strangely dressed man looked towards the audience for the first time, Martin’s heart stopped. Amber eyes stood out against his dark skin, with black lightning erupting from their corners to slash across his cheeks. Dark purple lipstick was artfully smeared across his mouth. 

Martin just couldn’t stop staring. Christ, he looked _incredible_. He didn’t pay much attention to the other five people that entered, although he vaguely noticed that some of them were dressed in the same steampunk style as the first man. It took a sharp burst of feedback, surrounded by the quieter sounds of instruments being tuned, to snap him out of it. A person dressed as a soldier stood with the man behind a tall microphone and the others gathered around their instruments. 

As a violin started to play from the side of the stage, the man with the amber eyes took a breath. Something in him just… clicked. And he started to sing.

“ _Like whisky laced with gasoline, we’ll get you stinking drunk_

_So shut your face and settle down, you sneering little punks_

_For space is vast and you are small, it’s black and bitter cold_

_The book is lying open: there are tales to be told.”_

Martin was vaguely aware his mouth hung open. That voice was… Martin didn’t think he had the words to describe it well enough. It was deep and gravelly, with some tinge of ferality barely held back. Every word dripped with confidence, the faint aura of nervousness he had once carried shredded in that first note on the violin. The space was too small for him to move around, yet he somehow managed to convey the motion of swaggering without a single step. The lyrics, with their promise of a story, intrigued-- no, _ensnared_ him in a way that reminded Martin just how mediocre his attempt at poetry was.

Martin had never liked busy places, always choosing to escape to somewhere less populated; _now_ , though, he couldn’t have left if he wanted to. (He absolutely didn’t.)

The song continued for another verse before the music quietened and the beautiful man in front of the mic spoke. 

“Killers and renegades, liars and thieves, we are the Mechanisms! A band of immortal space pirates roving through the universe on the starship Aurora having fun, violence and... more violence whenever possible.” A pause for a laugh: he already knew how this went. “Allow me a brief moment of self-indulgence to introduce to you the crew of our mighty starship.

“Dr Carmilla, our _esteemed creator_ ,” he said with a sneer, pointing to the women at the keyboard.

“Drumbot Brian, I believe you’re our pilot:” this to the man in the top hat with the small drum.

“Nastya Rasputina, engineer” was the one playing the violin.

“Ivy Alexandria, our archivist,” with a sarcastic sigh, pointing to the woman with the flute.

“The Toy Soldier… frankly, we have no idea what it does,” he said with a tilt of the head to the person in military costume next to him.

“And finally, the one you've all been waiting for: _myself!_ Jonny D’Ville, your humble captain!” As if on cue, ‘Drumbot Brian’ corrected his title to “First Mate!”, at which the man -- Jonny -- rolled his eyes.

“Together, we are… _the Mechanisms!_ ” Jonny said triumphantly into the mic with a dramatic gesture as the music started up again. Together, the Mechanisms completed their first song, followed by several more each as fantastic as the first.

\-----

Afterwards, when Martin remembered to go downstairs, his head was spinning. He felt the same way he did when he left the cinema: dreamlike, dazed, but on top of the world. _This was definitely worth it_ , Martin thought to himself. He didn’t think he’d been so sure about anything in years.

“Hey, Martin!” Erin called to him from across the room, pushing through the now-thinned crowd. (Some had left partway through, claiming this “just wasn’t their kind of music”. If Martin had been paying attention to them, he would’ve been appalled by their rudeness. As it was, his focus was locked on Jonny D’Ville and his golden eyes.)

“Oh! Erin… hi. Um, what- what did you think?” he asked.

Erin grins, her smile filling her eyes. “It. Was. _Awesome!!_ Probably one of the best live bands I’ve seen in a while, actually. I wonder if they’re on Spotify? Hm. Probably not,” she rambled. Erin’s eyes (brown, nowhere close to that shade of amber that Martin would write about for the next few ~~weeks~~ months) held on his and somehow her smile got wider. “Thank you so so _so_ much for coming with me!”

Martin looked away, caught himself thinking about how it didn’t matter, considering how quickly she’d left him behind, and tried to just stop thinking. It worked, at least for a little bit. “No, no, it’s fine. I- I had a great time, actually. Um… yeah. It was- It was good. It was _really_ good.” And _oh God_ , he could feel himself blushing, which Erin was definitely going to call him on, and then he’d have to explain this stupid crush on the lead singer--

Oh.

_Fuck._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you enjoyed this first chapter! warning: both of them are 11/10 disaster gay from here  
> comments and constructive criticism would be greatly appreciated :)
> 
> beta read by the fantastic hey-hey-hey-i-aint-gay on tumblr  
> you can find me on tumblr at [i-opingus-the-dingus](https://i-opingus-the-dingus.tumblr.com)  
> jonny's Look in this chapter can be found [here](https://i-opingus-the-dingus.tumblr.com/post/190705603253/skitpost-the-mechanisms-was-jons-band-in-uni&sa=D&ust=1581792490132000&usg=AFQjCNFZjsJ-J-6VHMWnXVuJ8wpTVVy2rw)


	2. 08.09.15

Today had started off _so_ well. Jon had been able to get a few hours of sleep that weren’t at his desk and… No, that was it. Good lord, when had he started taking care of himself so badly that _that_ was a good day? Not that he was likely to stop any time soon, Jon admitted to himself, not when there was so much work still to be done.

The day had started off well but adamantly refused to carry on that way. The muffins were sold out at that little cafe down the street so Jon hadn’t had any breakfast, there were _four_ spiders in his office, Tim had knocked over a box full of loose statements, and now his desk (plus several Very Important Documents) was dripping with tea, courtesy of-- 

“ _Martin!_ ” Jon snapped as the hot liquid splashed onto his shirt.

“Oh, god, I- I’m so sorry! The rug--”

“I don’t give a shit about the damn _rug_ right now, just help me clear this up!” Jon replied with a huff.

Martin ran out of the room, almost tripping on the rug again in his haste to leave. He reentered with a tea towel as Jon unsuccessfully tried to mop up the mess with some napkins he’d found in one of his desk drawers. They quickly became soaked, leaving behind those damp little paper bits Jon hated. Martin decided to just _ignore_ the ruined statements in favour of pressing the tea towel to the front of Jon’s shirt.

(Jon wanted to live in this moment, regardless of his uncomfortably wet shirt. He was just a bit touch-starved, that was all, though of course he’d never tell anyone. It was all Perfectly Normal.)

(It definitely wasn’t the way Martin was so close Jon could count his numerous freckles, or the care in his face as he tried to dry Jon’s shirt, or the warmth of his other hand pressed against Jon’s side through only a thin barrier of fabric. Definitely not.)

It felt like an eternity before Martin looked up from his task, eyes full of apologies. “I, um. I really am sorry, Jon. I’ll look where I’m going next time. I-If you still want there to be a next time, that is. Of me bringing you tea. Um,” Martin trails off, his cheeks faintly red. 

Jon wanted to grab his hand, tell him it was okay, don’t worry about it, it was a harmless mistake, and please, _please_ keep bringing him tea because sometimes it feels like that’s the only thing that keeps him alive--

What came out instead was: “You make better tea than I do.”

Well.

Jon supposed that could’ve gone worse. At least it was positive.

Martin smiled at him. It was a small, weak thing that was barely there before it disappeared and conveyed none of the feeling that a smile was supposed to have. He seemed to remember suddenly that he was still pressing the tea towel against Jon’s front and stiffened momentarily before flinching away.

“I’ll go and make you another mug, then. And, uh. Sorry. Again,” Martin said quietly. It was as though he vanished rather than actively left the room, although Jon was so deep in his own thoughts he wouldn’t have noticed if Elias had entered his office wearing a Victorian ballgown and dancing the macarena.

There was a feeling deep in his chest that Jon didn’t (couldn’t?) recognise. Rather than trying to examine it, he got up from his chair and moved to the front of his desk, smoothing out the small rug with his foot. _Just so Martin won’t trip again. I don’t want him to spill_ another _mug of tea on me_ , Jon ~~rationalised~~ thought.

\-----

Martin was an _idiot_. A completely useless idiot who probably shouldn’t have a job here considering how incompetent he was. (He definitely shouldn’t, considering he was completely unqualified and oh god, how long will it take for Elias to find out? Because Elias was definitely going to find out and then he’ll get fired and he’ll never see Jon again--)

That was when he walked into the doorframe of the break room, _very_ narrowly avoiding dropping the mug a second time. “Thank you for proving my point!” he said to it, then blushed furiously as he realised he was talking to a wall. Martin rolled his eyes at himself before dropping the soaked tea towel in the small laundry basket.

Usually, making tea was kind of like meditation; Martin could lose himself in the process and its simple steps. All he had to think about was how long the tea needed to brew for, or how much milk and sugar to add. (Jon liked his tea so sweet it made Martin’s teeth hurt to think about it.)

Usually, it was like meditation, but not this time. Martin’s head was swirling with thoughts, mostly in the general area of _I Fucked Up_ and _What Do I Do_. Of course he managed to fail something so basic! Martin _really_ hoped he hadn’t made Jon uncomfortable.

But maybe they’d had a Moment, maybe in another timeline Jon had put his hand on Martin’s and told him he didn’t mind and of course he still wanted Martin to bring him tea, it was the highlight of his day. Maybe in that timeline, Martin would’ve gazed into Jon’s eyes, brown under the harsh office lights, and told Jon that he’d do anything for him. Maybe in that timeline, Jon would’ve smiled and told Martin the same with a smile on his face. Maybe in that timeline, Jon would’ve leaned down--

“Earth to Martin!”

The daydream shattered, Martin stared at Tim, his face probably tomato red. “No, I’m- I’m listening!”

“Really,” Tim replied with an eyebrow raised. “You were listening _so intently_ to my speech on how moths are a conspiracy invented by the government to cover up the existence of Mothman that you didn’t notice the kettle boiling?”

“The kettle? Oh, Jon’s tea!” Martin remembered, abruptly turning to the kettle behind him. This interaction had lasted all of ten seconds yet was already a huge mess.

“So what _were_ you thinking about then?” Tim asked, leaning next to the kettle so Martin couldn’t avoid the force of his stare.

“Work?”

“You, Martin K. Blackwood, Disaster Gay Extraordinaire with probably the biggest crush I’ve ever seen, were thinking that deeply about work.”

“Y-Yep.”

“I’m sure Jon will be happy to hear you’re finally so _focused_ ,” Tim said, turning to leave. 

Martin absolutely didn’t yelp, not even a little bit. He slapped a hand over his mouth, wishing he could just disappear and not have to deal with all these horribly embarrassing experiences one after the other.

Ignoring Tim shaking with laughter, Martin fixated on the tea. “I, uh. I should probably get this to- to Jon.”

Tim wiped a nonexistent tear from the corner of his eye and clapped a hand on Martin’s shoulder as he tried to leave. “You have got it _bad_ , mate. Just ask him out! What’s the worst that could happen?”

“Uh, he could say no and that would be really awkward, you lot would never let me forget it, I’d never be able to look him in the eye again and oh yeah, maybe he’d ask to get me transferred out of this job I like because my feelings are ‘ _inappropriate_ '!” Martin blurted, dropping his voice into a bad imitation of Jon’s on the last word. He pushed past Tim and left the break room, cautious of the mug clasped in his hand.

“Always thinking of the worst-case scenario. Just phrase it as a friendly thing and if he says yes, see where it goes.” Tim called down the corridor to Martin’s fleeing figure.

Martin took a moment to collect himself outside Jon’s office before pushing open the door for the second time that day. It didn’t escape his notice that the rug, which earlier had been full of wrinkles and bumps, was now smooth. Carefully, _carefully_ , he placed the mug in the ring of old tea marking the only clear spot on Jon’s desk.

“Thank you,” Jon said without looking up.

“It was the least I could do after, um… Yeah.” Martin realised with a start that Jon’s tea-stained shirt has been swapped for a thick forest green jumper, the sleeves just slightly too long. “You’ve changed your clothes.”

“Observant today, I see,” Jon replied with a look that could almost be called a smirk. “Yes, I keep some spare clothing in that storage room with the cot. Sometimes I work late--”

“Sometimes?” Martin interrupted with a scoff.

Jon did smile then; Martin wanted to frame it. “Perhaps a bit more often than I should.”

“‘Perhaps a bit’, do you even hear yourself?” Martin teased gently.

“Oh, shush,” Jon said, making Martin’s breath catch. Maybe he was just projecting, but it sounded almost _fond_. The warmth in his chest filled him with confidence and Martin decided to ask before it inevitably left him.

“Hey, I was wondering, um…” Shit, this felt so much harder when Jon was fixing him with those stunning eyes. Martin often wondered what they’d look like in better lighting, having only seen them under the Institute’s too-bright lights that seemed to wash everything out.

“What?”

“Doyouwanttogotoashowwithme?” The words came out in a rush, making Martin cringe. He took a breath and asked again, slower this time. The only sound for a few seconds was the whir of Jon’s laptop.

“Who’s playing?” Jon asked, just as Martin said in his panic, “Forget I said anything--”

They stared at each other for another second. “You- I- _What?_ ” Martin stammered. No way in hell did Jon just express interest in going anywhere with him.

“I said, who’s playing?” Jon said slowly. Martin was staring at him incredulously, and Jon had a feeling he was close to doing the same. Martin _did not_ just ask him on a date, that would be crossing professional boundaries and-- Wait. A date? Where did that thought come from?

“Y-you’re not… Aren’t you going to tell me it would be a waste of time, that you could be working?”

“Believe it or not, Martin, I _do_ have a life outside of my job.” Jon could hear his voice, could feel his lips moving, yet was doing nothing to control them. The back of his neck prickled as Jon realised his statement was… not quite true.

“I- Sure. Sure you do,” Martin responded with a nervous little laugh. “It’s this band I like, they’re pretty small, you wouldn’t have heard of them. They’re, uh, they’re playing these small venues at the moment, there’s a show in Oxford on the 14th that I’ve wanted to go to for a while… I’d like it if you could go too?”

Jon was simultaneously filled with disappointment and something that felt close to excitement, a strange combination that tasted bitter on his tongue. “Busy, I’m afraid. Maybe next time?” And Christ, that sounded so callous, so dismissive, that Jon wanted to slam his head into his desk.

“Busy with work? Or… something else?” Martin asked cautiously.

“I’m…” Shit, what should he say? “Meeting some old friends.” It’s not _technically_ a lie, he’d just… failed to mention that this meeting involves a stage, a microphone, and (frankly ridiculous) costumes. Something he would _never_ tell anyone, not even Martin.

“Next time then.” Martin gave him that weak smile once again, before leaving the office with shoulders slumped. (It was barely noticeable, but Jon was weirdly aware of all Martin’s mannerisms.)

Jon waited until the door was closed to plant his face in his hands, pushing his glasses up onto his hair. He silently fumed to himself, ignoring the faint fluttering behind his ribs. If only...

This time, the tea did not go cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> god they're both disasters
> 
> thank you all so so much for all the positive feedback on the last chapter, it was really reassuring and honestly just so good to read! (very motivating too)  
> the next chapter will be up soon, probably? who knows lmao
> 
> you can find me on tumblr at [i-opingus-the-dingus](https://i-opingus-the-dingus.tumblr.com)  
> comments and constructive criticism would be greatly appreciated as always!


	3. September 14th, 2015

The six days between Martin’s conversation with Jon and the concert stretched in that weird way where every second feels like an hour and every hour passes in a second.

Every night, Martin stared at his ceiling and relived that conversation, wondered if Jon would’ve said yes if he’d phrased it differently. He’d thought it was going so well -- Jon hadn’t dismissed it out of hand, after all -- but of course, it was never meant to be. (Martin wasn’t sure if he believed in meant-to-be.) He wished Jon had given a less blatantly obvious excuse, but at least he didn’t say he was busy with work. That was honestly a huge improvement.

The time Martin didn’t spend at work ~~(or pining over Jon)~~ , he used to listen over and over to the Mechanisms, especially their newest album -- The Bifrost Incident. It had been released a year ago and he’d listened to it plenty since then, marking it firmly as one of his favourites. The album was fantastic as always, and he’d loved Norse mythology since he was a kid so that was a win. It inspired him too, as their music always did, his poetry full of sorrow and shimmering stars.

The night before, Martin was almost bouncing with excitement. He hadn’t seen the Mechanisms live for ages, as they now performed most often in Edinburgh. The last time was five -- no, six -- years ago and Martin’s memories of the experience had faded. He was probably really irritating at work, with the way he kept drumming familiar rhythms on his desk or talking to Tim and Sasha about it whenever he could.

(Tim and Sasha, because they were the ones going with him instead of Jon. Martin tried to pretend that was just as good. He liked his two coworkers, but it was completely different to sharing this personal part of him with Jon.)

Martin decided to paint his nails a few hours before he left since he was meeting Tim and Sasha at half four. He'd had painted nails at work before, so he shouldn’t be so nervous about it, but there was always that little blob of inky anxiety staining the paper-thin confidence it gives him. (Apart from that one time Jon complimented them. He’d worn the same colour for the next three weeks.)

As always, the hour before he got to the train station was awful. Martin was a mess, worrying about his keys and his tickets and does he look okay and what if the train’s delayed and they’re late? The roar of thoughts only calmed down when he boarded the train with his friends, replaced by that overwhelming excitement.

The queue at Port Mahon wasn’t long, mostly thanks to Martin making sure they were there early. This netted them a spot almost at the front of the crowd, and for once Martin didn’t feel self-conscious about his height. Pocketwatch, the warmup band, was great, but there was space in front of the stage as they performed.

Once Pocketwatch had left the stage, there was about a minute before the lights changed subtly. Martin looked at his two friends and grinned so wide it hurt.

\-----

Jon _really_ shouldn't have looked at the audience. Normally it gave him that burst of adrenaline he needed for the performance, but tonight…

“ _Fuck!_ ” he gasped as he spotted those three familiar faces in one of the front rows. He couldn’t do it, he couldn’t go on stage, they were going to see him making an utter fool of himself and he didn’t think he’d be able to look ~~Martin~~ any of them in the eye ever again--

“Shit,” Jon mumbled to himself, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Oh God, oh Christ…”

“Jon, relax. We’ve done this show four times already, it’s going to be fine,” Brian told him.

“No, it’s- it’s not that, you don’t understand!” Jon pressed his fingers against his eyes, the pressure usually so calming.

“Watch the makeup!" Raph called from the other side of the room.

Jon snatched his fingers back like his face was aflame (it might as well have been, with how damn hot he felt) and got up to pace around the small backstage area, his restless energy needing some form of release. “My f- _coworkers_ are here tonight, so yes, I’m. A bit. Nervous! What if they don’t like it?” _What if Martin doesn’t like it?_ “Christ, I need a cigarette.”

His bandmates glanced at one another, not quite sure what to say. “Jon, you work in London, right?” Brian asked.

“I fail to see how that’s important.”

“Well, would they really have come all this way just to see a random band they don’t even know? If they’re here, they like us.”

“I- I suppose you’re right,” Jon admitted. “It’s fine. _I’m fine._ Everything is going to be just _fine_ _!_ ” His laugh wasn’t even slightly manic.

From the stage came the sounds of Pocketwatch finishing up their set, and Jon’s nerves crashed back into him with the force of a steam train.

Jon closed his eyes.

Took a deep breath. 

Took two, then three.

And as his shoulders rolled back, he slipped into the character of Jonny D’Ville, immortal story-telling space pirate.

He strutted onto the stage with a confident smirk at the audience, maybe a hundred people tonight. The room was alive with cheering as the front half of the audience scrambled forward to sit on the floor. (In the back of his mind, he was vaguely aware that Tim and Sasha gave each other a Look; they knew who he was. _I’ll panic about that later_ , he decided.)

“Well. I’ll say one thing for this planet. It does produce some _spectacularly ugly_ people.” It took a couple of minutes for everything to get set up correctly, the band bantering in character the whole time. (Jon may or may not have consciously avoided making eye contact with Martin.) Once everything was adjusted, his bandmates started playing quietly, allowing him to start the introduction.

“Killers and vagabonds, liars and thieves--” _dramatic flick of the hand_ “-- we are the Mechanisms!” _Pause to let them cheer._ “A crew of immortal space pirates roving through the galaxy on the starship Aurora, having fun where possible, violence when necessary, and if we’re very lucky, both at the same time.” _Brief smile, keep talking._ “Allow me a brief moment of self-indulgence to introduce to you the crew of our mighty starship:

 _Turn, gesture_. “You’ve already met our pilot, Drumbot Brian.”

 _Louder now_. “Gunpowder Tim! Our master-at-arms!”

“Ashes O’Reilly, quartermaster from the depths of the planet Malone!” _Turn back to the audience._

“Two new members of our crew!” _Spin to the back, gesture again._

“Baron Marius von Raum, our ship’s doctor: neither a baron nor a doctor!”

“And Raphaella la Cognizi--” _face the audience_ “--our science officer. As cruel and brutal as she is… science!”

“The Toy Soldier, of course. Who is, as usual, present.” _Roll the eyes a bit._

“And last but the opposite of least: myself!” _Give them a small bow, flick the hand again._ “Jonny D’Ville, your humble captain!”

Most of the audience ~~(including Martin)~~ yelled “First Mate!” in response and Jon grinned, stuck up his middle finger. The music was louder then, encouraging him for the final part of the introduction.

“Together, we are… _the Mechanisms!_ ”

Jon let the music carry him away.

\-----

Tim and Sasha were pressed to his sides, their knees knocking against his, and Martin found he didn’t care what they thought anymore. He was lost in the lights and the music and the dizzying beauty of Jonny D’Ville. His outfit had been different every time, the only constant element being those streaks of dark lightning. This time, they shimmered faintly under the lights, the black tinged subtly with gold against his skin. Everything was a little tighter, a little more formal, than the first time: the white shirt, the waistcoat, the new crimson scarf wrapped around his waist. He wore a second scarf around his neck, the fabric patterned with tiny eyes. Jonny’s dark hair was braided again, but this time tiny braids woven with gold twisted around the goggles, holding them in place.

Suffice to say, if Martin hadn’t been sitting, he would’ve been weak at the knees.

The music swelled as the band launched into a single verse of Tales to Be Told; Martin sang along as loudly as the rest of the audience. As it slowed back down, Jonny swiped a black police cap from somewhere behind him and put it on. (Martin thought he was the only person that could make that hat look so good.)

“The Bifrost Incident. Any schoolchild could tell you about it…” Jonny said, now playing the role of Inspector 2nd Class Lyfrassir Edda, New Midgard Transport Police. His voice was deep, smoother than his usual singing voice, and utterly enthralling. Martin felt a twinge of familiarity and a flutter in his chest and yep, he still had that ridiculous crush on this (albeit incredibly attractive) stranger. _Looks like_ that’s _not going anywhere then,_ Martin thought.

The tale continued and Martin didn’t dare to make a sound, even when he’d usually sing along. It was an unspoken rule amongst fans: Don’t Interrupt The Story. Instead, everyone just let the emotion in each song flow through them, from the anger of Thor to the sadness of Sigyn to the feral, crazed energy of Red Signal and Ragnarok I. (Ominous eldritch chanting had never sounded hotter.) Finally, the story ended with Terminus, the distress signals at the end sending spiders crawling down Martin’s spine as they always did.

Jonny took off the hat, glanced down at it, then back to the audience. “That was a bit of a downer, wasn’t it?”

All at once, the audience started cheering, applauding until their hands hurt, as Drunk Space Pirate started to play. They all sang along, stamping if they could, smiles on everyone’s faces--

And just as suddenly, it was all over.

The band exited the stage, leaving Martin with that cinema feeling and a vague sense of loss. The only thing he wanted was for Jonny to come back, to pin Martin with those unforgettable amber eyes and tell him another story.

Of course, Martin didn’t get his wish.

\-----

Jon hovered backstage, unable to hear Martin’s conversation with Tim and Sasha and wishing he could read lips. They seemed happy though. Jon’s chest was warm with the fact that it was _him_ , at least in part, giving them such happiness. He wanted to fold up that feeling and tuck it away behind his heart for safekeeping. He wanted to go out there in his costume and tell them. To tell Martin, because he could tell the other two knew, and he selfishly wanted to be the one to reveal this part of himself, to push this part of his soul into Martin’s hands.

Jon knew Ashes and Marius were calling him to join them but couldn’t tear himself away from that gap in the door. Martin’s face lit up as he spotted the tiny stall in the corner selling CDs. Jon was so focused on him that Tim and Sasha were almost directly in front of the door Jon was hiding behind before he noticed.

“Hey, boss! Fancy seeing you here!” Tim was smiling like a child on Christmas Day.

“Haha, yes, very funny,” Jon said wearily, pinching the bridge of his nose. He glanced back over to Martin and realised he’d turned back towards the stage, clearly looking for his friends. _Anyone would have panicked in that situation,_ Jon would think later. _My reaction was not at all out of the ordinary._

Said reaction was grabbing the wrists of the two people in front of him, yanking them through the door and slamming it behind them.

Tim stared at him. Sasha stared at him. The rest of the band stared at him.

“Uh… Jon? Who are they?” Marius asked, confused.

“They are… my coworkers. That I told you about. Before the show.” Jon ground out, embarrassment building quickly.

“And what are they doing back here?”

“Jon’s hiding us from our good friend Martin because he’s a complete mess,” Sasha cut in.

“Young love,” Tim said to them in a stage whisper.

“Young-! Wh- No, I- That’s not- I am _not_ in love with Martin!” Jon spluttered. “I don’t even _like_ him!”

 _Very convincing, Jon. You definitely have them fooled,_ he thought. Except wait, no, he didn’t need to be convincing, didn’t need to fool them, because he was _not_ lying. 

He _didn’t_ like Martin, the man was nothing but a nuisance. Alright, fine, he could be helpful sometimes and never grumbled about shooing the spiders away from Jon’s office and brought him tea every day without fail. Yes, _maybe_ Jon sometimes couldn’t take his eyes off Martin. Perhaps Jon always felt better after seeing him, no matter how awful his day had been. Sure, if you’d accused him of wanting to run his hand through Martin’s hair and count all the different colours within it, he might have agreed if he was drunk enough.

But he Was Not in love with Martin. Not at all.

Tim just raised an eyebrow at him.

“I said all that out loud, didn’t I?” Jon sighed. He slumped down heavily on a small box and covered his face with his hands. “Good lord, who am I kidding?” The sound was muffled by his palms but Sasha clearly heard it anyway, considering how she awkwardly patted his shoulder.

“We’ll just… be off. Martin will be looking for us,” Sasha told him, giving Tim a look that clearly stated ‘Don’t You Fucking Dare’.

Jon grimaced and raised his head. “I’ll, ah… I’ll see you at work tomorrow, I suppose.”

“See ya, boss!” Tim said with a jaunty wave and a smug grin.

“Tell him about any of this and you’re fired.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> maybe the choice of albums for the live show doesn't make sense but fuck it, it's my fanfic and i get to choose the song they play live damn it!!!! (tbh it's because i was listening to tbi while writing this and thought "martin can have little a eldritch invocations, as a treat")
> 
> in terms of the timeline, jarchivist sims started the mechs when he was about 20 (so 2007ish) which pushes everything back by 3 years. tbi is released in 2014 and dttm takes place in early 2017, just before some uhhhhhh. Important events  
> also yes my jon is a bit less of a bastard than he is in canon right now, i can do what i want! if what i want is for the man to be soft, then the man will be soft!  
> anyways.
> 
> thanks for reading, y'all! your comments were so nice to read too, i'm so glad people are enjoying this fic and my portrayal of these two disaster gays.  
> i would die for you all. that is a promise and a threat.
> 
> jonny's Look in this chapter is vaguely based on [this post](https://tired-disgusting.tumblr.com/post/190845662013/creatrixanimi-hey-yall-i-cant-stop-thinking)  
> you can find me on tumblr at [i-opingus-the-dingus](https://i-opingus-the-dingus.tumblr.com)
> 
> comments and constructive criticism greatly appreciated, as always! <3


	4. 12.03.16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is this chapter over double the length of the first? yes.  
> did it feel right to split it at any point in the chapter? no.  
> if you wanted something longer, well then merry christmas. if you preferred the shorter chapters... sorry i guess?
> 
> i just wanted to say also i just wanted to say thank you all so so much for all the positive feedback. i know i've said it a lot already, but honestly this fic wouldn't be anywhere near as good without all of your comments and kudos motivating me.
> 
> anyways, enjoy!

Jon had actively been in love with Martin for about half a year now, which had _not_ gotten any easier. At least his coworkers had kept their promise. Albeit barely, in Tim’s case; apparently it made for good blackmail material. Jon was going to kill him someday. (That is, if the sheer embarrassment of his life now didn’t kill him first.)

He’d never been a particularly nice person, always too prickly, too boring, too thoughtless and caustic and generally awful to be around. Jon had been utterly bewildered when Georgie became his friend at uni and even more so when she expressed romantic interest in him. He simply couldn’t understand what she saw in him, but he tried (God, he _tried_ ) to be better, at least so it would take a little longer for her to get sick of him. After they broke up, he stopped bothering.

So when Martin came to give him a mug of tea and brushed their fingers together accidentally, or when Martin gave him that soft smile that seemed reserved for him alone, or when Martin was just _there_ , Jon wanted to curl up in a ball under his desk and not come out. He had to deal with that swish in his stomach and that flutter in his chest while armed with the knowledge that Martin would _never_ reciprocate his feelings. It was unthinkable; Jon was an unrelenting prat. How could Martin _not_ despise him?

And yet.

There was still the tea, still the promises to do the best he could, still that _perfect_ damn smile. Martin didn’t act like he hated Jon, had never acted like it. 

But had Jon ever seen Martin hate someone? Did he have a reference for what that hate looked like? Jon didn’t think so. Clearly, Martin was just _pretending_ to be nice. Yes, that must be it. The thought was an icy dagger between his ribs, freezing his blood, his body, until Jon felt he would shatter with a single blow. Jon craved Martin’s warmth like a plant craves the light of the sun, so for the first time in far too long, he started trying to be better again.

It was difficult at first, like using a muscle that was atrophied with inaction. After months of ignoring Martin’s offers of friendship and belittling him at practically every chance he got, being awful to the man came upsettingly naturally. At one point, Jon forced himself through an excruciating conversation with Sasha about how to improve. He’d been mortified to be told exactly how _much_ there was to improve, even though Sasha had tried to tell him as kindly as possible. 

For one thing, he’d simply assumed Martin knew how much Jon appreciated the tea. But no, Martin wasn’t a mind-reader and his patience wasn’t infinite; two obvious facts that Jon had needed to be proved to him anyway.

\-----

“Here’s your tea,” Martin had said, putting it down harder than usual in that circular tea stain.

Jon was too lost in his work to notice the bad mood Martin was in and simply hummed in thanks, making no move towards the mug.

“For god’s sake! I don’t know why I even bother.” Martin muttered as he turned to leave. 

Jon’s head snapped up, face aghast. “Martin, wait--”

“Oh, you want to talk to me _now_ , do you? Not when I ask you to come for drinks with the rest of us, or any _other_ time I bring you your bloody tea, which I have _every day_ for the past _year!_ No "thanks", half the time you leave it to go _cold_ because that’s just how little you care, and I just keep doing it, because that’s all I’m good for, isn’t it? Might as well just replace me with a bloody robot, something that can ‘contribute more than delays’.”

At this, Jon paled, his mouth moving but no sound escaping. He had nothing to say. He had too much to say.

“Yes, Jon, I listen to the tapes, and don’t think I haven’t noticed just how often you insult me for no good reason! I might be a bit clumsy, but I’m _trying_ to do the best I can, except that’s never good enough for you. So from now on, I’m not going to bother. No more tea, no more invites to Friday drinks… You get nothing.” And Martin left. He didn’t even close the door.

Jon had sat at his desk, totally stunned. The heat in his face was concentrated around his eyes; oh God, he wasn’t going to _cry_ , was he? No, he couldn’t, not with the door open at least. He didn’t want his coworkers to see him having a breakdown, especially since they had to have heard everything Martin said.

Suddenly, he stood up with sharp, jerky motions like he’d forgotten how his limbs worked and needed to learn to use them again. He rushed over to Tim’s desk and asked frantically where Martin had gone. Jon wasted no time in hurrying after him as soon as Tim pointed him towards Artifact Storage.

Martin didn’t stand, didn’t lift his face from his hands as the door crashed open. “Sasha, I’m not in the mood to talk right now.”

“I’m, ah… not Sasha.”

“Did I not make myself clear enough, somehow?” Martin snapped. Why couldn’t Jon see that he was the _last_ person Martin wanted to speak to right now? His emotions were already a mess, he didn’t need this awful, arrogant ~~(annoyingly beautiful)~~ man stirring them up more.

“I wanted- I want to apologise.”

“Apology accepted. Go away.”

“No, I-” Jon sighed, sat down on a long crate opposite him. (Wait, was that… a coffin? Surely not... God, Martin hated this job sometimes.) “Not just for today. For… For everything. I appreciate your efforts, and I thought you knew that, but apparently not.”

Martin just scowled at him. Was that supposed to be an _apology_?

At least Jon was aware of his mistake, judging by the cringe that immediately followed. "I mean--"

“Christ, of course you make this into _my fault_. That was probably the most condescending apology I’ve heard in a while.”

“That’s not what I meant, I-- Ugh… Look, you don’t deserve all this from me, Martin. And I’m- I’m sorry.”

Martin avoided Jon’s eyes; he wanted to hold on to his anger, wanted to keep it clutched close to his chest. Anger was so much easier than the complex mix of longing and loneliness and frustration and ~~love~~ everything else he dragged around with him at all times. He had the sense that if he looked into Jon’s eyes, his resolve would crumble completely and he’d spill his guts about every little detail of just how he felt right now, plus what exactly caused it.

“You’re right, I don’t deserve this.” Martin’s voice wavered embarrassingly, sending a rush of blood to his cheeks. Shit. This was _not_ going how he wanted.

“No. But please believe me, Martin, I am _trying_ to change.”

“You’re doing a pretty awful job of showing it.”

“So tell me how to be better!”

Martin stood up and walked further into the junk-crowded room. “You shouldn’t need me to tell you how to be a decent person, Jon.”

Jon sighed, the sound heavy with emotion and exhaustion. “No, I shouldn’t. But I _am_ sorry. Please forgive me.”

As the door swung shut behind Jon’s retreating form, Martin struggled not to break down. He couldn’t deal with this, not after that disastrous phone call earlier. It wasn’t like Jon was going to act on anything he said, and that knowledge hurt more than anything his mother could ever say to him. He wished more than anything that he didn’t like Jon so much; even though Martin knew Jon needed a wake-up call, the guilt still festered in his stomach.

In that cramped and dusty room, Martin wept. He didn’t see Jon again for the rest of the day.

But the next morning, a mug of tea sat on his desk. It was over-brewed and far too sweet, nowhere near the quality of the tea he made; Martin drank it anyway. When Jon entered the room, hesitant and twitchy, Martin didn’t think twice before greeting him with his usual warm smile.

\-----

That day marked a turning point in their relationship. It was nowhere near perfect -- hell, it was barely even functional at times -- but it was a large improvement. Jon was determined to show Martin he meant what he’d said. Slowly, Martin started to believe him. Jon didn’t blame him for how long it took; after all, if _Jon_ had been constantly treated like shit, he’d be wary of kinder behaviour too.

It took a long time for the offers to join the three of them for drinks after work to come back. Jon didn’t really mind -- except he did, he wanted to be included and resented himself for pushing everyone away. (Acknowledging the fact didn’t make it easier to deal with, and definitely didn’t stop him from pushing.) The times he’d accepted, he mostly just sat quietly and watched the three of them laugh together. It was nice, but Jon supposed it looked rude from the outside. He overheard Tim talking to Sasha about him once: “why does he even bother coming with us if he just _sits_ there?” Jon hadn’t joined them again for a few weeks.

Still, he _was_ trying. He had lunch breaks at least once a week (alright, maybe not quite that often), engaging in small talk with his coworkers and not acting like… How had Tim put it? “Some kind of cross between a librarian and a goblin, skulking in your office all the time.” _That’s probably the weirdest insult I’ve ever gotten_ , Jon had thought at the time. Tim had just laughed more at Jon’s confused frown.

The one downside of getting used to being around people was that you noticed (and cared) _much_ more when they weren’t there. Which was why, on the thirteenth day of Martin’s absence from the Institute, Jon was almost frantic with worry. Yes, fine, Martin had texted about his illness but he hadn’t picked up the phone when Jon had called. He _hadn’t answered his_ _phone_. He _always_ answered his phone. The ringing circled round and round in his head, punctuated by that shrill beep of the voicemail. He hadn’t done any decent research for roughly a week now. (Probably. The days sort of blurred together.)

His fingers moved of their own accord towards his phone again, lying on the break room table. Sasha gave him a Look. “Uh, Jon? Maybe… don’t call Martin again?”

“What? I- Oh. You’re right, he’s probably asleep and I’m just disturbing him. He sent me a text yesterday, he’s fine. He’s _fine_.” Jon tried (and drastically failed) to convince himself. He sighed, raking a hand through his already-messy hair. “I should get back to work.” Leaving his soup behind, Jon stood abruptly and hurried down the corridor. 

“Wait, no, finish your lunch--” Sasha called after him. (He was already too far away to hear her.)

Back in his office, Jon burned through statements, a starving man in front of a banquet. Most of them were mundane, boring things given by liars, drunks and people with mental illnesses. There were a couple, though, that sent those familiar prickles of fear creeping down his spine. He _hated_ those statements but he hated the thought of admitting his terror even more. So he read them onto those ancient tapes and dutifully ignored the feeling of being watched, the drain of his energy, the immersion into the narrative to the point he could feel the victims’ fear. The worst ones featured spiders; Jon felt like he was bound and forced to read, memories of Mr Spider crawling to the forefront of his mind.

Thankfully, his most recent statement had nothing to do with them. Instead, he told the tape recorder of a mother’s fright as “the sky ate her son”. He wanted to dismiss it as ridiculous, usually would’ve, but couldn’t ignore that heavy weight at the back of his neck that left him feeling painfully observed. He’d almost finished his closing remarks (playing up the scepticism in a futile attempt to convince whatever was watching that he didn’t want to hide in a ball under his desk) when the door burst open--

And Martin ran into the room.

He promptly crashed into a chair, knocking it to the floor, but Jon was too happy to see him to care.

“My god! Martin?!” His smile drops from his face to be replaced by a look of horror as he realised what had followed Martin to his office. _Worms_. About an inch long, with a silvery that went black at one end, and currently squeezing through the cracks in the window frame. “What… What the hell is-? What are these things?!”

“Jane Prentiss, she- I-” Martin huffed, out of breath. He bolted over to the window and immediately started smashing as many worms as he could beneath his boots. Black slime was splattered all over Jon’s carpet and the wall by the time they stopped coming. It stank of rot and decay. Jon wanted to let in the crisply fresh air from outside. He didn’t, of course; who knew how many more could be waiting out there for him to make such a foolish mistake?

The two collapsed onto the tiny sofa crammed in the corner, catching their breath. Martin was pressed against his side and Jon thought he could feel the frantic beat of the other man’s heart through the places where their skin touched.

“Are you alright?” Martin asked him, face full of concern.

Pushing his glasses up onto his head, Jon pinched the bridge of his nose and forced back an indignant laugh. “Martin, you were chased here by _murderous worms_. And you ask if _I’m_ alright?”

“I guess you kind of get used to murderous worms after being trapped in your flat by them for two weeks?”

“What?! I- I thought you were sick, you texted me!” Jon twisted to face Martin in surprise and had to restrain himself from physically checking Martin was okay.

“I couldn’t have, I dropped my phone when I- hm. Maybe… Yeah. I think I should make a statement.”

“A st- You want to make an official statement.”

“Yes.” He nodded firmly and got up, moving to sit in the chair at Jon’s desk.

“Fine,” Jon grumbled, taking a second to miss the warmth at his side before going to his own chair across from Martin. “Are you sure about this?”

“I just want to make a statement about what happened to me. I mean, it… it’s what we do.”

“No, what we do is research statements. Usually those made by liars and the mentally unwell.” It was tough to keep the sneer out of his voice.

“Well, I need to tell _someone_ what happened, and you can vouch for the soundness of my mind, can’t you?”

“Well, yes but…” _But Naomi Herne left here more scared than ever, and I don’t want that to happen to you._

Martin rolls his eyes slightly, an almost imperceptible movement but one Jon caught nonetheless. “If you’re that worried about it, it doesn’t need to be an official statement. I just need a record of it.”

Jon swiped a hand through his hair and took a deep breath. “Fine. You’re right. I suppose. Statement of Martin Blackwood, archival assistant at the Magnus Institute, London, regarding…”

“A close encounter with something I believe to have once been Jane… Prentiss.” They both flinched. They both pretended they hadn’t.

“Recorded direct from subject, 12th March, 2016. Statement begins.”

It didn’t take long for Martin to give his statement, not really, but the minutes felt like days, thirteen days of relentless fear that today is the day they get him, today is the day his defences aren’t enough and he wakes up full of holes, a hive of unnatural corruption just like her--

He let out a shaky breath. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea,” he mumbled to himself.

What Martin expected to happen next was for Jon to tell him he’d imagined it all, that this was the product of a paranoid mind and a lack of sleep.

What actually happened was that Jon looked him dead in the eyes and _believed_ him, offering a well-protected room in the archives to stay in. It left him speechless and with dangerously burning eyes. Leaning on an elbow, he covered his face with a hand and pressed on his eyes as though he could hold the tears in.

“Are you _sure_ you’re alright, Martin?” Jon asked, his voice full of concern.

“Yeah, no, I’m fine. It’s just… It’s been a long day.”

“Do you want a hug?” Martin looked up, stunned for the second time in as many minutes, to see Jon blushing furiously. Martin couldn’t stand the force of eye contact and looked away, but nodded wordlessly.

They got to their feet simultaneously, Jon almost stumbling as he rounded the desk. At first, the hug was awkward, stiff, Jon all bones and angles, Martin worrying about how tight to hold and where to put his hands. It was only when Martin felt Jon faintly trembling against him that he realised the other man needed this as much as he did. Martin relaxed into the embrace, resting his cheek on the top of Jon’s head. Without thinking, he pressed a soft kiss to Jon’s messy hair. 

_Oh, for god’s sake,_ a voice in Martin’s head hissed. (It sounded suspiciously like his mother and suspiciously like himself.) _He’s going to push you away, yell at you about personal boundaries, you fucked this up like you always do--_

Except Jon didn’t. He didn’t even stiffen in Martin’s arms, just clutched a little harder at the back of his shirt (unless that was just Martin’s imagination.)

They stayed like that for a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof this hurt to write. they both need so many hugs (more than one). 
> 
> i hope it wasn't too ooc? one one hand, jon hasn't had any of his positive character development that he's had in the show yet, so he's still a bit of a dick. but on the other hand, i think being aware of his feelings for martin would make jon more aware of how badly he treats him. i kind of tried to balance between the two. hopefully it works??
> 
> some of the dialogue was taken straight from ep 22, so credits to jonny sims for that ofc
> 
> i'm currently considering writing more than 5 chapters of this? not sure how much mechs content i'd be able to put in though, since the next live event i've planned for this fic is dttm and i'm not sure if it would feel right to squeeze in another one. but on the other hand, jon and martin aren't quite where i want them to be in terms of their relationship (or character development esp. in jon's case), and i'm really enjoying writing this fic, so much that i kind of don't want to stop at 5 chapters. a dilemma!!
> 
> you can find me on tumblr at [i-opingus-the-dingus](https://i-opingus-the-dingus.tumblr.com)  
> comments and constructive criticism greatly appreciated as always! :)


	5. November, maybe? (who knows??)

Jon _itched_. It stopped him sleeping. How in the world was he meant to get any rest when he couldn’t stop feeling worms wriggling beneath his skin, devouring his flesh and hollowing him out into a honeycombed bag of skin fit to be their home? Jon often dreamed of the foul creatures shredding his brain and pouring their sick song into his ear until he was more music than man. Those nights, it was better to stay awake once he came back to consciousness screaming. Sometimes, he went to the Institute to distract himself, regardless of how late (early?) it was. Sometimes, that worked.

Jon itched. He knew healing wounds were supposed to feel like this. It didn’t help.

It was not only a physical itch, however, that plagued every second of his waking hours. No, it was not just his body but also his _mind_ that itched in a place he was trying his hardest to reach. The itch was this; who killed Gertrude Robinson?

Elias was his prime suspect, especially after their meeting regarding Jon’s… _activities_. He just had to be hiding something, Jon decided. No one acts that shifty without a good reason. Not to mention his apparent personality switch. Jon also couldn’t shake the feeling that something was… off about Elias. He had no evidence, just his brain’s frantic whispers: “wrong no get away wrong stop looking at me _wrong_ ”. Any time spent in the man’s presence was time Jon felt uneasy and unsafe.

At the bottom of the list was probably Sasha, or she was at least close to it. Jon simply couldn’t think of a motive -- he refused to entertain the idea that this was a random killing, just because someone felt like it -- considering Sasha had seemingly never even _met_ Gertrude. Michael’s visit threw a wrench in the works, though. It was difficult to ascertain who was more believable. On one hand, Sasha seemed normal enough, but Michael implied she was lying, further confirming to Jon that trust was a fool’s game. On the other, Michael could have been messing with him which didn’t seem particularly out of character for that creepily distorted being.

Tim was definitely suspicious, leading Jon to begin watching his house. It was a stupid idea, he knew that, but he couldn’t stand the thought that Tim could be getting away with murder just because Jon wasn’t in the right place to see something. The man appeared surprisingly unaffected by the recent events, considering he’d gone through the same nightmarish experience as Jon. Although perhaps he was covering for his worry that someone would find out he’d killed Gertrude by acting as normal as possible. Jon just needed to be more careful next time he ‘happened to be in the area’.

And Martin… Martin. Jon could barely stand to think of him as a murderer, the thought of those soft hands wielding a gun frankly inconceivable. Except there was that letter, that admission of falsehood written in Martin’s own hand. Jon had turned a more observant eye on Martin recently, noticing moments of uncharacteristic competence. What if Martin was _acting_ clumsy to delay his investigation? Plus, he was hovering around Jon a lot more; was this to see how close Jon was to discovering the truth? To stop Jon from conducting his research? Thoughts like these caused guilt to well in the pit of his stomach, sharp and caustic. He _wanted_ to trust Martin. Ached with the strength of that want. But to let his feelings for the man overcome rationality was a mistake.

Speaking of Martin, Jon needed to talk to him. His latest statement had directly contradicted Martin’s claim that Trevor Herbert had died halfway through giving his statement. Had Martin lied to him? He’d been lying to all of them already, Jon knew that, but what reason would he have to fake Herbert’s death?

“Martin, could you come in here please?” Jon called from his office doorway.

“Uh, yeah, sure. What’s this about?” Martin asked. Jon chose not to answer.

Once he’d firmly closed the door, he gestured to the chair in front of his desk. “Sit down.”

“What is--?”

“Sit.” Jon snapped. Martin sat. “Why did you lie to me about Trevor?”

“What?”

“Why did you tell me he was dead?” Jon struggled to keep his steadily-growing agitation hidden.

“Sorry, who’s… who’s Trev--” Martin was frowning. It looked genuine enough.

“Trevor Herbert. The tramp? The vampire hunter. You told me he died.”

“But I mean he… did. Didn’t he?” A tinge of nervousness crept into Martin’s voice; had Jon finally caught him in his lie?

“Apparently not.”

“Oh!” Martin looked down, fiddled with his fingers. “Sorry.”

“Sorry?” An apology was… unexpected, to say the least.

“I mean, I- I didn’t ever actually meet him. I just heard some of the other researchers mentioning it.”

Jon’s voice was barely a whisper. “What?”

“Yeah, well, I could’ve sworn they said he died. I mean… maybe they just said he looks like death or something--” Martin’s eyes were wide and innocent as they met Jon’s, but Jon broke eye contact and scoffed. A likely excuse. “I really thought they said he was dead.”

“So that’s it.” His voice was full of venom now, the anger at being lied to _constantly_ almost overwhelming. “Just a misunderstanding.”

Martin was taken aback, clearly not understanding how important this was. “Yes. You seem to be taking this kind of personal--”

“Because you keep lying to me, Martin!” Jon’s eyes ached. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could deal with any of this. He didn’t have a choice -- he simply _couldn’t_ trust anyone, not when he might be next on the list of victims. But keeping up his guard permanently was exhausting.

“About what?!”

Jon huffed, raked a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. But you are.” And it was time to prove it. Cramped in the back of one of his desk drawers was a _very_ incriminating sheet of paper.

“Where did you get that? Have you been going through the bin?” Martin asked. Jon expected him to sound panicked. Instead the man was just confused. Jon felt something in him unlatch and suddenly everything seemed crystal clear, his body refusing the vicious heat that usually accompanied such ire.

“It was in the old document room, just next to where you used to sleep. Your handwriting. ‘If the others find out I’ve been lying’ -- lying about what, Martin?” Jon’s breath came faster, he was so _angry_ , so sick of the lies--

“Look, just forget about it, okay? Please,” Martin pleaded, hoping to defuse the situation. It did not work. Jon’s rage grew until it was all he was, the rest of him tossed into the icy sea and left to freeze into something sharp and cruel. (Except there was fear hidden behind the anger, a fear that was also building as Martin refused to tell him the truth because oh God what if--)

“I _can’t_ forget it. Everyone in this place has so many _goddamn_ secrets and I can’t trust a word you say. Not about this and not about Trevor--” Not about anything, because it was all _lies_ , each one putting more pressure on his frozen heart until it creaked with the strain--

“Jon, just--”

\--and the ice _exploded_. “Martin!” Jon yelled, slamming his palms on the desk.

Martin flinched, his eyes full of fear. Somewhere deep inside him, a shadowy place still unfrozen, Jon felt a pang of regret. “Okay! Okay! Okay. Just… just… promise you won’t… fire me.”

“Fire you-- Fine.” He’d promise anything to finally learn the truth.

With a deep breath, Martin revealed it. “I lied on my CV.”

What.

“…What.”

_What?!_

“I don’t have a master’s in parapsychology. I don’t even have a degree. I was 17, my mum, she had- she had some problems and I ended up dropping out of school trying to support us. I tried everything but nowhere was hiring, so I just kind of started to lie on my application, sending them out to just about anywhere. 

“For some reason my lie about parapsychology got me an interview with Elias and- and then a job here. But most of my employment details are made up. I’m only 29.”

Jon’s laugh was a small thing in the tension of the room. “Right, I- I… uh… I believe you.” There was an odd sensation in the centre of his chest, not anger or guilt or fear (nor the once-familiar flutter of longing that had been overcome by distrust), but something he couldn’t quite recognise.

Silence. A long silence. Then: “Why are you smiling?”

Was he? Jon raised a hand to his face. The movement was slow, almost dazed. “Yes, um, I just… I won’t mention it to Elias. Just between us.”

“So you don’t mind?” Martin said hesitantly.

“To be quite honest, Martin, I’m really rather relieved.” Ah. That’s what the feeling was.

Again, they were silent, Jon turning the revelation over and over in his head. Again, Martin was the one to interrupt it. “What was all this about, Jon?” The question was careful, almost like how you’d talk to a child.

He looked up, a deer caught in headlights. “Wh- I- It’s- I j-” Jon coughed, cleared his throat and tried again. “It’s none of your concern.”

Martin’s eyes searched his face; Jon wasn’t quite sure what he was looking for. “You think I killed Gertrude, don’t you.” It was not a question.

“Well, I--”

“ _Don’t you._ ”

“I didn’t think it was you,” Jon mumbled. “But I had to be _sure_ \--”

“Bullshit!” Martin spat, and this time Jon was the one to flinch. “You didn’t _have_ to do anything, you didn’t _have_ to stalk me, or Tim for that matter, you didn’t _have_ to confirm because you should know us all well enough by now to not suspect us of _murder!_ ”

“I--”

“Don’t you _dare_ give me an excuse. Don’t you fucking _dare!_ What you did, Jon, is not something that can be waved away.”

“I know that but--”

“I did. Not. Kill. Gertrude Robinson. Neither did Tim. Neither did Sasha.”

“ _T_ _hen who did?_ ” The words held an almost tangible weight to them, and if either of them had been paying attention to the tape in the corner, they would have noticed it crackle with static.

“I don’t know!” Martin gasped, and the words just kept coming. “I have no idea who killed her, and honestly I’m terrified because someone around us is probably a murderer, but I don’t know who it is, and I don’t want to be next. But Gertrude was the Archivist and now you are so what if you’re next, that’s what I’ve been worrying about these past few months because I can’t lose you, Jon--” _Finally_ , Martin was able to clamp his mouth shut. “I didn’t mean to say all that.” 

Jon just sat there, heart pounding against his ribs.

“Y- Do you- I’m telling the truth. I swear.” Martin said firmly, his face pale.

“I know,” Jon replied. “I know. I don’t know how but… I just do.” There were facts in life that Jon knew to be true with his entire being: the sky was blue, the opposite of up was down, Martin was telling the truth. It was as simple as that.

Jon felt very tired suddenly, his head swimming. “I… Ugh.” His whole body cried out for rest. “I think I… need to lie down.” Lifting himself out of his chair with shaky arms, Jon stumbled over to the sofa in the corner.

“Jon? Are you alright?” Martin asked, leaping up out of his chair.

“No, I… I feel so… dizzy. I…” Jon slurred as he collapsed into Martin’s arms. A thought swam to the front of his exhausted mind, desperate to be heard.

Through bleary eyes, he gazed at Martin’s face of concern. “I can’t lose you either,” he said, reaching up with a heavy hand to cup Martin’s cheek. Then his eyelids slid closed of their own accord and he knew nothing but _rest_.

Jon was surprised he had the energy to dream. The fragile thing dissipated as he awoke, leaving only scraps of mist and slivers of gravestones. The only other thing he remembered was a voice, oily and smooth. “Well, this was sooner than expected,” it said. 

He couldn’t explain why that filled him with such a strong sense of fear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so uh yea, that was a thing. i didn't plan most of it, it just kind of... happened. one step forward two steps back with jon, although it's sort of understandable considering all the worm-related trauma. (not that i'm excusing the stalking and everything. stalking and paranoia bad. jon really needs to chill :/ )
> 
> there's definitely going to be more than 5 chapters of this. how many more? who knows. not me, that's for sure. right now, i'm thinking maybe 7? death to the mechs is definitely going to be the last chapter. (oh yea, this _was_ a mechs!jon au. whoops?)
> 
> the first section of dialogue (ending with "i'm really rather relieved") has been shamelessly stolen from episode 56, so credit to jonny sims for writing that
> 
> hope you enjoyed this mess lmao, thanks for reading!!  
> you can find me on tumblr at [i-opingus-the-dingus](https://i-opingus-the-dingus.tumblr.com)  
> comments and constructive criticism would be greatly appreciated as always!


	6. December 23rd, 2016

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *opens google*  
> how to make my fic as tender as possible
> 
> so this is the longest chapter yet, and Definitely the softest. i really enjoyed writing it, hope you enjoy reading it!

Martin could barely believe Jon was here. If someone had told him two years ago that _Jon Sims_ would be enjoying himself at a Christmas party, he probably would’ve asked if they were thinking of the same person. Except there he was, holding a red cup (seriously? Who bought those?) and grinning as he talked to Tim. Martin had just stepped away for a second to get himself and Tim a drink, but when he turned back towards them… God, he couldn’t stop himself staring. Jon had never looked so beautiful as he did when he was smiling. Martin really, _really_ wanted to kiss him.

“Martin, are you staring at Jon again?” Sasha’s voice whispered in his ear.

“N- No! I… I need to get this to Tim,” he said, gesturing with one of the cups in his hand. Sasha raised an eyebrow but let him leave. 

As Martin walked back over, he caught the tail end of Jon’s conversation with Tim. “...really am sorry, Tim. I know I’ve already said it but I don’t think you believe me, so I’m going to keep saying it until you do.”

“Just don’t do it again-- Oh, there you are, Martin! Are you alright? You look a bit red.”

Martin wordlessly thrust one of the cups at Tim and took a drink of the other to hide his blush. “Yeah, no, I’m fine. It’s just… hot in here,” he finished lamely.

When Jon grabbed his arm, Martin almost dropped his cup. “Jon! Wh--”

“I’m cold, you’re warm,” Jon mumbled against the wool of his jumper.

“Yeah, he gets a bit clingy when he’s drunk apparently,” Tim told him with a smirk. “Your problem now!” he called behind him as he wandered off to talk to one of the other nine people crammed into his flat. (It was only the four of them plus a couple of friends they’d each wanted to bring. Martin hadn’t brought anyone, Jon had invited Georgie, his ~~ex-girlfriend~~ friend from uni, and the rest knew Sasha or Tim somehow. Martin hadn’t talked to them yet. Probably wouldn’t.)

“Jon, how many drinks have you had?” Martin asked.

“That is a very good question, Martin! Three, maybe? Or four. Who knows?”

Martin couldn’t help himself and giggled. “You are such a lightweight.” He wasn’t the drunkest one here though; that honour went to one of Tim’s friends.

“Rude,” Jon said. Was he… Was he _pouting?_ _That’s adorable_ , Martin thought, then immediately started blushing again.

As skinny as Jon was, having a whole person hanging off your arm wasn’t the most comfortable feeling, so Martin decided to drag him over to the sofa. “I’m going to get you a glass of water, I’ll be right back.”

“No!” Jon exclaimed, grabbing Martin’s arm. “Stay with me.”

How was Martin meant to refuse? He couldn’t. He didn’t. Jon pulled him down onto the sofa and immediately tucked his face into the crook of Martin’s neck. His brain short-circuited for a second; all he could feel was Jon’s warm breath against his skin. Maybe it was the drinks making him confident, but Martin decided _Fuck it_ and leaned his head down so it rested on Jon’s, then wrapped an arm around his shoulders.

They sat there like that, not saying anything, perfectly content in their little bubble while the party rolled on around them. Martin thought Jon had actually fallen asleep on him until he heard him speak. “‘M not cold any more.” It was barely audible over the music, almost more vibration than actual speech.

“Good,” Martin said, then they were quiet again. Martin wanted to freeze time and live in this moment for the rest of his life.

It was one of Tim’s friends (or Sasha’s, Martin wasn’t sure) that popped their bubble. “Hey, Tim!” she said, giggling. “Maybe you should’ve put up some mistletoe because we have some lovebirds over on the sofa!” Martin stiffened but didn’t move away from Jon.

“God, I think the world would _literally_ end before those two get together,” Tim replied with a voice full of alcohol and laughter.

Martin clearly wasn’t supposed to hear their conversation. He didn’t know if Jon had heard it too.

But then

Jon leaned up and

kissed him on the cheek.

“Want to bet?” he said, his eyes gleaming.

Tim choked on his drink and Martin… Martin’s heart _stopped_. (Tim would later tell him that his expression had been a perfect example of Gay Panic.) 

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not wait for the world to end.” Martin didn’t even realise he had spoken until he heard Jon laugh next to him. He’d heard Jon laugh before, of course, but those were sharp things that barely started before they were over. This was uncontrollable and rich, and it bent Jon double. If Martin hadn’t been completely and irrevocably in love with Jon before, well… He was now.

“ _Sasha!_ ” Tim called. “I think you owe me a fiver!”

“You _bet_ on us?” Martin blurted.

“Oh, shush.”

Martin would’ve argued more, but was distracted by the woman watching the two of them from the other side of the room. Georgie. When she noticed him watching her, she gave him a small but genuine smile and moved away. Normally, Martin would have felt bad; Jon had invited his friend here and basically ignored her in favour of Martin. He didn’t, though. Feel bad, that is. He was just mildly irritated that Jon thought it was a good idea to invite his _ex_ , who he apparently wasn’t even that _close_ to-- Wait. Was that… jealousy that Martin was feeling?

“For Christ’s sake,” he whispered under his breath. This was stupid. He was feeling jealous over someone he wasn’t dating (though he _really_ wanted to be) like he had any claim to Jon.

“Did you say something?” Jon asked quietly.

“I… It’s nothing,” Martin replied with a smile. Jon smiled back at him; it was soft and entirely open, a look of pure happiness. It took Martin’s breath away.

They talked quietly together, curled up on that little sofa, for about an hour. Martin was in the middle of his explanation for why highland cows were “ _obviously_ the best animal, they’re so fluffy! What's not to love?” when he realised Jon wasn’t listening. Somehow, regardless of the music and the chatter around him, Jon had fallen asleep. Martin took a few moments to watch the peaceful expression of Jon’s face before gently shaking his shoulder.

“Jon, come on, you need to wake up,” Martin said, voice hushed. Jon needed rest (desperately, considering the bags under his eyes) but he’d hurt his neck if he stayed like this. It was time for him to go home.

“Mmph,” Jon said.

Martin just shook him a little harder. Jon blinked, his eyes bleary and confused. “Whasgoinon?” he slurred.

“You fell asleep, you should go home.”

“Ughhhh, it’s so _far_. I want to stay _here_ with you,” Jon whined, pressing his face against Martin’s jumper again. _Okay, that was very cute but didn’t really help_ , Martin thought. He knew Jon’s flat was a couple of stops away on the train, a trip which usually took about an hour. Martin didn’t want to just put him on a train and trust that he’d get home safe, not when he was like this, but he didn’t have enough on him for a ticket.

“Hey, if you want… you can come back to mine? It’s only about ten minutes away,” Martin offered.

Jon looked up at him again, his glasses crooked. Martin wanted to reach out and fix them. “Really? I don’t want to be awkward.”

“No, not at all, it’s fine. I really don’t mind.”

“Hmm… alright.”

Martin looked at Jon’s thin jumper. “Did you bring a coat?”

“Yes, I’ll go and get it.”

“Okay, I’ll tell Tim we’re leaving. Meet you by the door.”

The flat was small, so it didn’t take long to find Tim. “Tim, I’m going to take Jon home, he’s really tired. Thanks so much for inviting us, we had a really nice time.”

“Alright, Martin. Can you…” Tim trailed off, looking awkward. “Can you text me when you get back? It’s just, after everything… I want to be sure you get home safe, and you haven’t been kidnapped by Joe Spooky or whatever.”

Martin looked at Tim, at the scars that peppered his face and neck, and understood. “Of course. I promise. And don’t worry if Joe Spooky comes for us, I’ll fight him off!” They laughed quietly and Tim gave him a quick hug.

Jon was waiting by the door wearing a leather jacket over his jumper. It was a good look on him. A _really_ good look. “Are you ready to go?” he asked, looking much more awake.

Martin grabbed his scarf off the hook and nodded. His fingers felt clumsy as he tried to tie it around his neck.

“Let me,” Jon said, gently taking it from him. Martin could barely breathe as Jon tied it with delicate care, the warm skin of his fingers brushing against Martin's neck. “There,” he whispered. “All done.”

Their faces were close. So close. It would take almost no effort for Martin to lean down and kiss him. Looking at Jon, at the deep blush staining his face, Martin could almost believe they were thinking the same thing. They stood there for at least a minute, gazing into each other's eyes, Martin trying to work up the nerve to cross the gap between them. _Do it,_ his brain whispered. For once, he listened. He started leaning forward slowly, almost imperceptibly--

A crash sounded from the kitchen, snapping them out of the moment. Martin jumped and stepped back, his resolve lost. "W-we should. Um. We should probably get going."

"I--" Jon cleared his throat, tried again. "That sounds like a good idea." (He sounded almost... disappointed? No. No, he couldn't be. Surely not.)

It took less time than expected for them to reach Martin’s flat since neither of them felt like staying out in the cold for long. Martin’s hand shook slightly as he unlocked the door; this felt scarily personal, making him anxious. Thankfully Jon didn’t seem to care about what it looked like and made for the sofa. (The flat was too small for a guest room. Not that it really mattered; this was the first time someone was staying over in... Well. Ever, actually.)

“Jon, you can’t sleep on the sofa, you won’t sleep well and you need rest,” Martin protested.

“I can’t kick you out of your own bed, not when you’ve been nice enough to let me stay here,” Jon said, sitting down on the sofa with a determined look in his eyes.

Jon wouldn’t take no for an answer, so reluctantly Martin fetched a spare quilt and a pillow. He hesitated in the doorway to the living room before going back to grab a jumper and pair of flannel pyjama bottoms.

“I, um… You can wear these if you want,” he said, giving them to Jon. “So you’re not cold. Jeans aren’t exactly the nicest things to sleep in.”

Martin avoided eye contact, feeling embarrassed, as Jon took the clothes from him. “Thank you. Uh, where’s the bathroom?”

“Just down the hall.” Martin made the ‘bed’ while Jon was getting changed, then got some aspirin from the kitchen drawer; they’d both need it in the morning. Jon still wasn’t done by that point so he just hovered awkwardly in the living room, waiting for him to emerge. He remembered his promise to Tim and sent a brief text. Tim quickly replied with a thumbs up.

When Jon reentered the room, Martin couldn’t help but stare. The thick jumper drooped off one shoulder, revealing one of Jon’s collarbones, and the flannel pants hung loosely off his hips. They were so long that the ends pooled around his feet.

Jon coughed. “Um, thanks for lending me these. They’re much more comfortable than my other clothes.” He sat on the sofa, wrapping the blankets around him.

“It’s no problem. I’ll just…” Martin replied, moving over to the door. “Good night, Jon.”

“Good night, Martin,” Jon answered with an audible smile.

\-----

Christ, it was cold. While Jon appreciated the warmth of his quilt and borrowed pyjamas, it was still a snowy night in December. Wait. Snowy? Sliding out of the cocoon of sheets he’d wrapped himself in, Jon paced over to the window. His footsteps were muffled by the carpet. Sure enough, the world outside the glass was draped in a thick cloak of white. He stood there for a few minutes, gazing through the blinds, before going to the kitchen.

Martin jumped as he entered. “Jon! Are you ok?”

“Yes, I just wanted a glass of water.”

Martin wordlessly pointed to one of the cupboards and turned back towards the window. “Have you seen the snow?”

“I have. Beautiful, isn’t it?” Jon reached for a glass and-- shit. He scrambled up onto the counter, praying he wouldn’t fall.

Martin looked over his shoulder at the noise and grinned. “You could have just asked me, you know,” he said as he easily grabbed a glass from the cupboard. Jon scowled and snatched it from him once he’d slipped down from the counter. They took one look at each other and burst into laughter. “God, this is ridiculous,” Martin said once he’d gotten his breath back.

Jon just hummed in response and filled the glass. He was shivering.

“Are you cold?”

Jon took a sip of water. “I’m fine.”

“I can see you shivering,” Martin said, giving Jon a Look.

“No, honestly, I’m always cold.”

“Wait, have you been freezing all night? Oh God, it hasn’t kept you awake, has it?”

Jon’s silence said everything. 

Martin frowned. “I don’t have any more blankets, but… Well, um… You know what they say about, uh. About body heat.”

Jon blinked. _Is he--_ “Are you--”

“Yes.”

“Right.”

The two of them didn’t move, didn’t speak, just stared at each other. _Say something!_ Jon’s brain screamed. “Okay,” Jon said finally.

“You mean, yes?” Martin was incredulous. He clearly hadn’t expected his offer to be accepted, but damn it, Jon was freezing and it couldn’t hurt, right?

“Yes.” Jon was not making the situation any less awkward.

“Okay.” Neither was Martin.

They still didn’t move.

“We should--” Martin started.

“Yeah.”

Neither of them spoke as they were getting into bed, apart from Martin asking which side Jon preferred. (Jon didn’t mind.)

They lay stiffly on their backs for a while, side to side and carefully not touching. Except Martin inched a little closer, and so did Jon, and before too long they were pressed together.

It took some time for Jon to fall asleep, but when he did, it was with Martin’s hand wrapped around his and warmth in his heart.

\-----

Martin had slept alone for a long time. A very long time. That was the _only_ reason why he panicked when he woke up to find Jon tangled around him.

Their hands were still clasped together, but Jon’s head was now resting on Martin’s chest instead of the pillow and their legs were entwined. Jon had curled up so much he looked like the letter C. _That can’t be comfortable_ , Martin thought-- then froze. This was undeniably intimate. But he couldn’t stop watching. Couldn’t stop looking at Jon, lying there on his chest, so relaxed and vulnerable.

Then Jon’s eyes opened.

_Fuck! He’ll know I’ve been watching him and he’ll think I’m creepy oh God oh fuck what do I do--_

“Morning,” Jon mumbled, looking up at him.

Oh.

“Morning,” Martin repeated. They moved apart, both pointedly ignoring the fact that they’d been all… curled up together. “I’ll go and make us some tea.”

“Alright. Um, get some aspirin, would you?” Jon asked, squinting at the sun shining through the cracks in the blinds.

“Of course.”

By the time the tea was ready, Jon was no longer in the bedroom. Instead, he had wandered back into the living room and was currently standing in front of Martin’s bookshelves. “You have good taste,” he says without turning around. “Mostly.” Martin knew the jab in his voice was directly at the Keats sitting on the top shelf.

“Thanks, I think?” Martin said as he handed Jon his tea and some aspirin. “Do you want some toast? I put some in but I forgot to actually ask.”

“Please.”

They ate breakfast sitting on the sofa without talking (since silence was apparently a running theme), each looking at the other then away as if afraid of being caught.

“I want to thank you, Martin,” Jon said, his voice serious and sincere.

“Uh, no problem. It’s just toast, nothing special.”

“Not just for the toast. For everything. _Everything_ you do. I don’t thank you often enough, but I really am grateful. I hate to think how I would’ve acted these past few months if I hadn’t had you… looking after me. I can’t deny that I’m still, ah, _interested_ in finding out who killed my predecessor, and I think I will be until I know, but… you make me better.” That last part was quiet, like saying it too loudly might change its meaning. “So thank you.”

Martin couldn’t breathe. “I…”

“Oh, and the ashes. I don’t think I ever told you how much that meant to me, even if it’s actually just a jar of dust or something. Are you alright? You’re crying.”

Raising a hand to his cheek, Martin found that yes, he was crying. “O-oh,” he croaked. “It’s… I’m…” He didn’t have the words, so he flung his arms around Jon and squeezed. Jon immediately returned the hug. Their plates fell on the floor, scattering crumbs, but Martin found he didn’t care. The embrace lasted a long time; Martin hoped it conveyed everything he had to say.

“That meant a lot to me, Jon. Thank you,” Martin told him once they’d pulled back from each other.

“You’re welcome,” he said softly. Then, “Oh, shit, the plates.”

Martin laughed, and the heavy emotion in the room dissipated.

The two of them did the dishes together in easy synchronicity, chatting about anything and everything. When Martin looked at Jon, lit in profile by the sun shining through the window, he had to restrain himself from just spilling his guts to Jon about exactly how much he loved him. (And God, it was a lot.) Jon’s eyes were golden in the sunlight; it looked almost familiar, though Martin didn’t think he’d seen him like this before. Strange.

He was beautiful, as always. Suddenly, Martin remembered the question he’d been wanting to ask Jon for a couple of ~~weeks~~ days.

“Hey, um, do you- I mean, would you be interested in going to see a band with me?” Martin asked. “Not like a- a date or anything. Obviously.” _Why?! Why did he say that? Jon wouldn’t have been thinking about it like that and now you’ve made things awkward._

“I would, actually,” Jon replied smoothly.

“ _Really?_ ” Martin squeaked. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Really?”

“Very much.”

“Good! Fantastic. It’s, um. Do you remember that time I asked you to go to a concert with me before, uh, everything?” _No, he won’t, that was over a year ago_.

“How could I forget?” Jon’s voice was sarcastic but warm. _Never mind, then._

“Right, well, it’s the same band, and it’s their last ever show so I _really_ want to go. I can play you some of their music if you’d like?”

Jon smiled. “Sounds good to me.”

“It’s a kind of concept thing,” Martin explained as he connected his phone to a small Bluetooth speaker. “They’re these immortal space pirates that travel round the universe telling stories. Oh, stop laughing.”

“No, it’s- I’m not laughing at you. I think they sound good. It’s an interesting idea.” Jon was still grinning slightly.

They spent the rest of the day sitting there in comfy clothes, sharing music and anecdotes until it was dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're in the endgame now. just one chapter left!
> 
> god writing this one made me feel All The Emotions
> 
> hope you enjoyed! and i know i say it a lot but thank you all so much for the overwhelmingly positive reaction this fic has gotten, you're all fantastic 💜💜💜
> 
> you can find me on tumblr at [i-opingus-the-dingus](https://i-opingus-the-dingus.tumblr.com)  
> comments and constructive criticism greatly appreciated as always!


	7. Death to the Mechanisms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this one took so long, writer's block + a concert really didn't help.
> 
> enjoy!

_I’m going to tell him today_ , Martin decided. _I’m going to tell him I love him_. He’d had this exact thought every day for almost a month. Every time he was _so_ sure he was finally going to say it, then he bailed at the last minute, telling Jon some bullshit about work or tea or going somewhere for lunch. Simply put, Martin was a coward.

Sometimes, though… Sometimes he had this vague feeling that maybe Jon didn’t need to be told. That Jon already knew. That maybe, just _maybe_ , he was telling Martin back. Brief moments of affection were allowed to linger, once-rare “thank you”s were now given with a hand on Martin’s arm or a warm smile, and every now and then his touch had an odd weight to it, like it was trying to convey something Martin didn’t quite understand.

Martin wanted to tell him anyway. He’d always been something of a romantic.

If only he could actually go through with it.

The only consolation was that he hadn’t made anything awkward or uncomfortable (for once). As time passed and their not-date ( _definitely_ not a date) came ever closer, everything got easier. That was the only way Martin could describe it. The new tactility between them was never discussed, just accepted as ‘how we are now’ -- a fact which Martin wasn’t going to complain about any time soon.

Still, it wasn’t quite enough, a fact which made Martin miserable then guilty in cycles.

Right now, though, Martin felt neither of those things; what he _did_ feel was incredibly stressed. He’d tried on all the shirts in his wardrobe (twice) and none of them looked quite right, his hair refused to be anything except a mess, and two minutes ago Jon had sent him a cryptic text that made his heart thump in his chest.

******Jon :)** [11:03]

Do you trust me, Martin?

[11:03] **Me**

??

 **Jon :)** [11:04]

Do you?

[11:04] **Me**

yeah of course

why?

 **Jon** **:)** [11:05]

Good. I'll meet you there.

[11:05] **Me**

i thought we were going to get the train together

?

i mean its fine if you want to meet there i guess

will you be waiting outside orrrr

[11:16] **Me**

jon?

[11:34] **Me**

jon are you okay? youre being weird again :P

 **Jon :)** [11:34]

I'm fine. See you soon.

What the _fuck_ was he meant to say to that?

The lack of communication was typical Jon -- after all, why say something when you could just… _not_ do that? -- but this time it unwillingly brought to mind a few of the statements he’d heard Jon read, with abductions and replacements and…

No. It was _fine_. Jon was just being weird. He hadn’t had his identity stolen by some kind of creepy monster. That was ridiculous. (Shit, when had _this_ become his life?)

Martin sat on his bed and sighed. He just needed to relax, because there was _absolutely nothing wrong._ More than that, he needed to actually get dressed because his train was in a few hours and he wasn’t even close to ready. But what to wear? Nothing looked good enough for ~~Jon~~ ~~their not-date~~ the concert. Already regretting his choice, Martin pulled out his phone again and called Tim.

Tim picked up in two rings. “Hey, you alright? You don’t usually call me.”

“I might be having a small emergency?” Martin said.

“Wh--”

“No worms or anything!” Martin reassured him. “It’s, um… I… So you’re my most fashionable friend.”

“Martin. Please tell me you didn’t call ‘not knowing what to wear on your date’ an _emergency_.”

“I- No- It’s not a date.” Martin could hear the frustratingly petulant note in his voice.

Tim snorted. “Whatever you say.”

“Are you going to just laugh at me, or are you going to help me?”

“Ugh, fine,” Tim replied, though there was no real irritation in it. “What about that purple shirt you got a while ago? Y’know, the one Jon complimented you on.”

“Mmm, maybe, but I tried it on and it looked too, I don’t know… purple?”

“Put on the shirt, Martin. I can promise you it’s not too purple.”

“Are you sure?”

“ _Martin_.”

“Fine, I’ll put on the shirt!” Martin huffed. “I, um. Thank you. For the help.”

“No worries. Have fun on your date, yeah?”

“ _Not a_ \--” Martin started, but Tim had already hung up.

He just smiled at his phone and put on the shirt. (Tim was right, it _did_ look good on him.) He’d painted his nails last night so after another quick brush of his hair, there was nothing to do except pace his flat, watching the clock tick closer and closer to the time he had to leave.

The journey was easy; the first half was Martin’s normal commute, then from there he got the tube over to Nambucca, where the Mechanisms would be performing. Still, he would have preferred Jon to be making the trip with him. He settled for listening to his Mechanisms playlist instead (not that that was a _bad_ option).

Jon was nowhere to be seen when Martin got to Nambucca. He sent a short text asking what time Jon was planning to get there, but there was no answer. The anxiety started to build as Martin queued to enter. Where _was_ he? By the time he got inside (third row, not bad), the anxiety switched to frustration. If Jon didn’t want to come, he should’ve just _told_ Martin rather than standing him up like this. Martin voiced this thought in another text to Jon (still no answer, because of course not, Jon was being a dick) and resolved to just enjoy the show.

This worked for about five minutes. Martin didn’t pay much attention to Reesha, the warmup act, though the parts he did listen to were really good. He was too busy worrying about Jon and getting annoyed about Jon and generally thinking about Jon. 

The thing Martin didn’t understand was, why bother saying yes in the first place if he wasn’t going to show up? Jon never had trouble turning down invitations to places, so that clearly wasn’t the issue.

It had to be more of a last-minute thing, then. Maybe Jon was sick? Except no, he would’ve just _said_ instead of telling Martin he’d meet him at the show. Maybe--

The subtle dimming of stage lights snapped Martin out of his thoughts; the Mechanisms were here. They stepped up onto the stage in single file, Jonny leading the procession. Martin cheered with the rest of the audience, the sound almost deafening in the crowded room.

Martin had never seen Jonny dressed like this before. (He looked incredible, of course, just different.) He wore a white shirt, the sleeves unbuttoned and pushed up to his elbows. The usual brightly-coloured trousers had been replaced by a skirt, ankle-length at the back but drawn up to mid-thigh at the front, showing off a fake gun strapped to his thigh. The skirt’s lace edges and his fingerless gloves were stained a deep red. Three belts were each angled differently around his waist. Rather than the usual leather boots, Jonny wore a pair of ankle-high heels that Martin secretly thought made his legs look fantastic. 

Jonny’s dark hair wasn’t braided this time but drawn up into a messy bun, though he still wore those emerald-lensed goggles pushed up onto his head. His mouth was painted in the same dark red as the stain on his clothing and the familiar lines of black lightning emphasised his amber eyes, gleaming in the stage lights. But what else was that on his skin? Martin couldn’t quite make them out until the lights brightened. They looked almost like--

No.

No fucking way.

Martin _knew_ what Jon’s worm scars looked like. Had studied them from afar, memorising exactly where each was on his face. He counted them sometimes.

But this--

He couldn’t be--

The rest of the band started to ensure their instruments were tuned. As Jonny sat down, feigning boredom, the two of them locked eyes and all Martin could see was Jon looking back at him.

How--

Why--

_What?!_

Jonny -- _Jon_ \-- winked at him. _This isn’t happening,_ Martin thought dimly. _This is a dream._

It had to be.

It wasn’t.

Then Jon looked away and broke the spell, leaving Martin reeling. He started bantering with his bandmates and yes, Martin could hear Jon’s voice hidden away in Jonny’s. How had he not noticed that before?

“How is everyone tonight?” The audience cheered again. “Sorry, I didn’t catch that. I’m going to assume, good?” Jon said dryly. Martin laughed despite his shock.

“Right, then. One last time.” 

It was only then that it really clicked for Martin, that this _was_ their last ever show. It felt bittersweet.

The music started up and Jon launched into Tales to be Told. Martin clapped along as they all did, a huge grin on his face. 

Next came the introduction. “Killers and renegades, liars and thieves, welcome! We are the Mechanisms, the crew of the starship Aurora roving through the galaxy having fun, violence, adventure, violence… violence...” Jon said, ticking each one off on his fingers. “Allow me a brief moment of self-indulgence to introduce to you the crew of our mighty starship!”

The crowd cheered for each name, Martin included.

“Drumbot Brian, our pilot!

“Ashes O’Reilly, quartermaster;

“Gunpowder Tim! Our master-at-arms;

“Baron Marius von Raum, ship’s ‘doctor’;

“Raphaella la Cognizi, science officer;

“And Ivy Alexandria, our archivist.” (The word didn’t quite have the same emphasis to it as when Jon used it for himself, Martin noticed. It was like Ivy was _an_ archivist, Jon was The Archivist.)

“And last but the very opposite of least, myself; Jonny D’Ville!” Jon said with a flourish. “Your humble captain.”

“First mate!” they all corrected on cue.

“Really? We’re _dying_ and you can’t give me this? Sometimes I don’t know why I bother,” Jon huffed, and that was so overwhelmingly… _Jon_ that Martin couldn’t keep the fondness out of his smile.

“ _So mind your manners, sonny Jim, we’ve seen beyond the stars_

_And if you care to prove it we can show you all the scars_

_We know the void is screaming mad, no happy endings out there, lad_

_The book is lying open: there are tales to be told…_ ”

\-----

The show was fantastic. Of course it was. It could never have been anything else.

They played a lot of Martin’s favourites, starting with The Bifrost Incident and going on to sing snippets of their other tales. The crowd went wild for each song, to the point where Jon called them out on it (“No, look, we’re in the middle of the story -- oh, never mind…”). Half of them were crying by the end. Martin may or may not have been one of those people.

It was during Hellfire, with Jon’s eyes full of joy and his voice full of passion, that Martin realised he wanted to spend the rest of his life with this man. The thought was a bolt from the blue, so strong that he almost stumbled. One thing at a time, though; Martin still needed to tell Jon he loved him first.

He would, if he ever got the chance at least.

It was three hours since the show had ended. Their book was closed, all their tales had been told, and now was the final time for the fans to talk with the band. Martin had queued with everyone else to talk to Jon, but he’d been busy with some other fans by the time he got to the front. So he bought a t-shirt, got it signed by everyone he could (everyone except Jon, it turned out) and retreated to a slightly quieter corner.

There, Martin waited.

And waited.

Once the crowd had _finally_ dissipated, Martin expected Jon to come and find him. Instead, he watched the band leave the room through a side door. Had Jon… _forgotten he was there_? He couldn’t have-- 

Martin’s phone buzzed; it was a text from Jon telling him exactly where to find a room behind the stage. _Not forgotten after all_. He realised Jon had arranged all this to give them some privacy and silently thanked him. Martin didn’t want to keep his love for Jon a secret; he just wanted Jon to be the sole keeper of that knowledge, at least for a while.

Following Jon’s instructions, Martin found a nondescript little room, clearly used for storage considering its location behind the stage. He pushed open the door to see Jon sitting on a table, his legs swinging slightly above the floor.

“I’m going to kill you,” Martin said. “And you’ll deserve it.” He was smiling so hard it hurt.

“Fair enough,” Jon said and hopped down from the table, impossibly agile in those heels.

The room was small enough that Jon was now only two steps away from Martin, still in front of the door. They moved forward in sync, turning the gap into mere inches. “I--” Jon started. Martin never found out what he was going to say as he leant down and kissed him.

Jon tasted like lipstick and warmth. Martin's hands cupped Jon's face, one sliding into his hair. It was impossibly soft. Jon’s arms were flung around his neck; Martin never wanted to leave his embrace. One of them made a low, desperate noise that made Martin’s heart skip.

Martin had never believed in any of the first kiss cliches. Never thought he’d see stars, or fireworks would go off, or birds would start singing. It was a nice idea, but real life just wasn’t like that (a fact proven to him by his first and only other kiss).

And it wasn’t. But here, now, with Jon close against him and his lips pressed tenderly against Martin’s, he couldn’t care less. It was perfect.

When they broke apart, both breathing heavily, neither of them were willing to go far. Martin leaned his forehead against Jon’s and they just smiled at each other for a while.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for two years,” Martin whispered.

“You don’t have to wait any longer,” Jon replied, kissing him again. Somehow, it was even better than the first time, leaving Martin breathless.

“Can we… Can we go back to yours?” he asked.

Jon jerked back, frowning slightly, and Martin felt the stirrings of panic. Oh God, had he fucked this up already?

“Martin,” Jon started, his voice slow and apologetic. “If you’re, ah… I don’t--” He looked away and sighed. “I’m asexual.”

“You’re--” _Oh._ Martin flushed. “I’m not, I wasn’t-- I didn’t mean _that_. I, um. I just thought, you know, maybe kissing in a cold, dusty cupboard in the back of a bar isn’t the most private. Or, um. Romantic.”

“R-Right… You realise I won’t--”

“No! Yes. I understand,” Martin stuttered.

Jon looked confused. “But I can’t, I won’t give you--”

“You don’t have to,” Martin told him firmly. His heart broke at the look of pure _relief_ that crossed Jon’s face.

He leant back in, leaving the last few centimetres for Jon to cross as a testament to what Martin just promised him. Their third kiss was full of unspoken ‘thank-you’s that Martin wished Jon didn’t need to say. It was gentle and almost chaste and Martin was so, _so_ happy that they got to do this at all.

“‘S a good look on you, by the way,” Martin murmured against Jon’s mouth. “The whole steampunk thing.”

Jon turned pink under his makeup. “I, um, thank you. Oh, stop, that tickles!” 

Martin had started pressing light, feathery kisses along Jon’s jaw and neck. “Sorry,” Martin said. (He wasn’t.)

Jon’s switched from happily flustered to amused as a thought struck him. “Since we can’t get fired, maybe I should show up to work wearing all this.”

They laughed softly together with the same breath. “What about Sasha and Tim?” Martin asked.

“They know already, they have since that show you invited them to,” Jon admitted. “Tim was the one who made me realise how much I love you.”

The words didn’t quite register at first. Martin just stood there in Jon’s arms, completely blown away. “You…”

“Yes. For a while now.”

“I never thought,” Martin started. He fumbled for the words for a couple of seconds before giving up and drawing Jon into a hug. He buried his face into Jon’s shoulder and tried not to cry. Martin lost track of how long the hug lasted for; they were reluctant to separate from their embrace and so neither made the first move to break apart.

When they finally left, it was hand in hand, and it stayed that way for the entire journey back to Jon’s flat.

As they were falling asleep that night, their bodies tangled together, the position entirely natural like they’d been sleeping that way for years, it dawned on Martin that he still hadn’t told Jon he loved him.

He didn’t mind. Jon already knew.

\-----

Three days later, Jon had been attacked by the _thing_ posing as Sasha and framed for murder. He’d had to flee his job and his flat, instead choosing to stay with Georgie Barker (whose address wasn’t anywhere in the Institute’s records). He’d been confronted with the fact that maybe he wasn’t quite as human as he thought.

Things had never been worse for Jon.

It was okay, though, because Martin was with him every step of the way.

The year and a half that followed did not go well for the two of them. It was full of pain and misery (and way too much circus bullshit for either of their liking), plus Jon seemed determined to pick up injuries even with Martin there to watch over him.

The book is still open.

The tale is still being told.

But just this once, the lovers don’t die at the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so yea. it's finally over. i've enjoyed writing this so so much and i know i've said it a million times and you're probably all sick of hearing it but thank you all SO much for all the kudos and comments. this fic got a much bigger reaction than i was expecting and i'm ridiculously grateful to all of you. maybe there is a love entity and i'm its avatar because those comments were some good fucking food
> 
> you can find me on tumblr at [i-opingus-the-dingus](https://i-opingus-the-dingus.tumblr.com)  
> jon's look in this chapter was a mix of [these](https://i-opingus-the-dingus.tumblr.com/post/190778787698) [two](https://i-opingus-the-dingus.tumblr.com/post/190705589388) fantastic pieces of art
> 
> for the final time, thank you all so much for reading, and i hope you enjoyed!


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